From the Ashes
by Cassiandra
Summary: Sauron has been defeated, but his destruction has released a power long kept dormant. It holds the castle of Minas Tirith captive, and the only way to stop its spread may be for Lord Elrond to become a part of it—but at what cost? Warnings inside, AU-ish
1. Prologue

**Author**: Cassiandra

**Characters**: Elrond, Elladan, Elrohir, Glorfindel, Galadriel, Celeborn, Thranduil, Legolas, Erestor, Arwen, Aragorn, Haldir, Orophin, Rumil, Lindir, a few OC's

**Summary**: Sauron has been defeated, but his destruction has released a power long kept dormant. It holds the castle of Minas Tirith captive, and the only way to stop its spread may be for Lord Elrond to become a part of it—but at what cost?

**Warnings**: Angst, torture, non-graphic m/m rape (_I _don't consider it graphic, anyway), death, violence, dark at times, unbeta-ed. . .ness

**Note**: I put this story on hold for a while, but I'm back and revamping almost everything. I'll try to get a chapter out at least every one or two weeks. Please ask me first if you want to use my characters or archive my story.

Also, this story is slightly AU. I try to stay as canon as possible, but there are things that are a little bit changed, such as the age Elrond and Elros are discovered. This is not completely AU, but things are different. Those things should be obvious once you see them.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing except the plot and the original characters.

~*~

**Prologue**

~*~

Rain fell in a light mist around him, wetting his hair enough to make it stick to the sides of his face. He pulled the thick cloak closer around him, more from unease than cold, and watched with guarded eyes as the other approached him through the haze.

Hair near in color to his own was pulled back into a tight, neat braid that fell to waist length, and a deep blue cloak covered a tall form a good two heads taller than his own. The newcomer stopped a few feet in front of him, long moments of silence stretching between them as they studied each other.

Even in this landscape were the haze of memory and emotion was dominant rather than reality, the god was in perfect control. It seemed as if the rain parted and changed direction, falling around him rather than on him. His voice, while soft, seem to drown out any other sound, commanding one's attention.

"You are much like her, you know," the god murmured finally, his face showing no expression. "Without the obvious alterations, of course."

He averted his eyes, remaining silent.

"You are just as powerful, too. I have been keeping an eye on you for some time. I must admit, that even on our scale, you hold enormous potential. Somewhat like your ancestors and the great Elves of old. You could—"

"Does this meeting have a point, or may I please return to my thoughts?" he interrupted, irritation lacing his words. "Unlike the Valar, I have no time for idle chatter."

The god's eyes held no anger, not even surprise at his disrespect. He felt a slight jab of disappointment. He wanted the god to hate him, to lash out, to strike him down where he stood. He wanted punishment for his crimes and was once again being denied.

"You are a confusing tangle of emotions," the god spoke once more, head slightly tilted to the side as he studied him. "You have pain, anger, self-loathing, despair—a grief so incredibly profound. Tell me, how is it that you can feel such emotions after such a victory?"

He stared hard at the other, amazed at the god's total unfeeling for the lives that had just been lost. "You, for all your renowned wisdom, are a great fool," he finally spat in disgust. "We have won, but at what price? Too many have died, too many in a war that never should have started, a war that you should have finished long ago."

Still there was no anger. "You know that that was not possible. It was not our place."

"Well, it wasn't mine either! I did not create this world, I did not loose a demon to ravage the land!" He was practically shouting, now, taking an infuriated step toward the other. "And I certainly did not want to lead thousands upon thousands of men to die for a world that had only shown them pain!"

"But you did," the god said quietly, a deep sadness radiating from him, and the elf turned away.

"Because I had to!" he growled, throwing his arms up in exasperation. "No one else was fit, not one else would. I made mistakes, so many mistakes." He looked once more at the god, eyes filled with anguish. "The price of every mistake that I made was the lives of the very men I was trying to protect."

"Come, now, do not be so hard on yourself. Do you think you are the only one that has suffered from such thoughts? Every general or king of a good heart that has lost even one man feels that he is to blame. They have to choose for themselves, though, how they will handle such grief. A smart man realizes that he cannot save every single soldier. You are a smart man, beloved by many. You have the rest your life to rebuild this land and people to share that time with. Do not grieve any longer."

"Everyone that I have loved has died!" The words were ripped from his very soul and accompanied by all of the despair and agony that he had suffered. The god's eyes widened almost imperceptibly in surprise, and he stepped forward to gently catch the swaying elf by the shoulders.

He struggled a moment, but the god was firm, so he instead collapsed against the god's chest. His hands clutched desperately at the soft tunic beneath the cloak, and he buried his face, burning with shame and wet with tears, in the Vala's chest

"Dear child," the god murmured gently, fondly stroking the broken elf's head. "It was not just I who watched. We have all seen your pain. We have also seen the strength you have because of its weight." He paused a moment, looking slightly lost as the elf's grip on his tunic tightened. "Forgive me. I know I am rather blind when it comes to the emotions of others. My wife handles matters of the heart far better than I can. But this grief you feel—the emptiness—I can relate. I, too, have lost loyal followers and loved ones."

The god gently released the elf, now composed, and stepped back. Another moment of silence fell upon them as the elf studied the great trees, hazy in the rain, that surrounded them. His eyes met the god's, studying him with the same thoughtfulness.

"The Valar do not come merely to console the wounded and weary hearts of elves or men, especially one such as you. What do you want?"

It was the barest lifting of the lips, but it was a genuine smile nonetheless that graced the god's face. "Very well. I have come to settle your turmoil—not over your losses, but over yourself. I have come to answer the question that brought you here in the first place. You remember—think," he urged at seeing the blank look on the elf's face.

He remembered, vaguely, dirt and blood and grime before he came to this place. A voice that called someone's—his?—name, an incredible absence of feeling that swept over his entire being followed by the fading of his vision. Soon, the voice and the noises of a war camp were gone, replaced by...a question?

"'What purpose do I serve?'" murmured the god. "That is what you asked me. You said it many times, always the same. You cursed us, you cursed Middle-earth, but above all, you cursed yourself."

The world reeled about him, and he forced himself to calm down before he fell. Yes, he remembered asking that. He remembered the hatred he had felt—but he had never imagined that the Valar would respond!

"So surprised. . .why?" Again the slightly tilted head as the god examined him in genuine confusion. "Do you not see that you are different?"

"I know I'm different!" the elf snapped, anger flaring as the god touched one of his sore spots directly. "I would think it obvious to others that I am not like them!"

"No, that's not what I meant. Not your physical body or blood, but the power you hold. That is why you are different."

The elf felt a chill slowly wrap around his body at the god's words.

"You remember. I see it in your eyes—your hatred and loss fuel the flames, and beneath the fire there is more. You almost touched them, twice, but you have never quite held them in your hand."

"I don't know what you're talking about," the elf interrupted. "I have never—"

"Don't be a fool." The words effectively silenced the elf, who could see the beginnings of irritation in the god's eyes. "You have felt the stirrings of power within yourself. Things such as this cannot be ignored, however hard one tries. You are afraid, though, and rightly so. For to open up to the other parts of yourself is to first allow the fire to consume you, and who knows what that will cause. I do know for certain that many will die as a result." The god paused, waiting for a response.

The elf swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry, and breathing seemed to be a great effort. The rain was no longer a fine mist, but a downpour that soaked him thoroughly, and his heart pounded within him.

"You. . .you have not answered my question yet, my Lord," he finally managed.

The god answered, though he knew that the question was merely used to divert his own questions. "Every child of Middle-earth has many options in life. None are born with just one purpose. They spend their whole lives trying to fulfill whatever one they happen to choose. They live, they influence, most make the world better than it was before they entered it. Everything that is done by the children of Eru and those of Aulë—however small—change the world. You ask me what your purpose is? Your purpose is to do as much as you can to make this world better for those you love and for those that follow after you."

It was simple, but it made sense and seemed to show the way that the world had followed since the beginning of time. The god wasn't finished, though.

"Every child is looked over and blessed by the Maiar and their subordinates to give them certain advantages in their life. Some become minstrels, artists, farmers. Every child has its own natal skills, though. The Maiar merely heighten. It is up to Eru to bestow each child with its talents. Some. . .happen to be more remarkable than others. Why this is, even I do not know. Whether Eru guides or it is solely the consequences of the child that lead it into roles of glory or heroism, I can only begin to fathom.

"Why are some born with the ability to control magic while others cannot even see the faces of their parents or a sunset because of some ailment to the eyes? Why is it that you survive everything that has attempted, knowingly or otherwise, to do you harm while those around you perish?"

And just like that he had turned the conversation back to the real question. "Why is it that I sense far more power in you than I do in elves thousands of years older than you? Elves that have seen the light of the trees, who have lived among the great Kings? Is it because her blood flows in your veins? If anything, you should be less powerful. You perplex me, young one."

"And again, I ask—what do you want? Though I have learned much, your coming here must have some other purpose. What do you want with me?"

The god was silent, turning his eyes heavenward and closing them in thought. After what seemed to the elf to be an unbearable amount of time, the Vala turned his attention back to him.

"There will come a time, I am almost certain, when the flames of your hatred and pain will break free from whatever control you have subconsciously put them under. This will undoubtedly result in the deaths of many. We—the Valar—do not know if you can handle this power, or if afterward you will be able to control it." He fixed the elf with a stare so intense that he felt that the god could see his very soul. "We need you to live. With or without this power, you are important for the preservation of this world. Do you think you can control the flames?"

The elf felt himself trembling, horror a distant chill creeping through him at the thought of destroying more lives—especially the lives of those he cared about. He feared whatever hid within him, and he knew that it held far more strength than he had previously witnessed. But did he have more than it?

It was not even worth considering.

"I will not put more lives in jeopardy," he said firmly and without doubt. He thought that he saw a flicker of disappointment run across the god's face, but it was gone before he could be sure.

"Very well. I can seal your power, but not without consequence. You will not be able to use the power that for whatever reason Eru has chosen to give you." He paused, looking uncertain. "Much consideration has gone into this, you must understand. It is not our place to throw away the gifts of Eru. However, we cannot seem to find any reason why you would need them after this war and what we have seen of your life to come and the role you play. The seal can be removed, but only upon our mutual agreement." He made sure he had the elf's undivided attention before continuing. "However, removing your seal means also removing any right-of-passage you have to Valinor. A gift thrown away and then retrieved as one pleases—a thing such as this cannot go unpunished. Do you still wish this seal?"

The elf paled, horrified at the thought, but managed to nod grimly. "It would be selfish of me to risk anyone's life but my own."

The Vala was silent a moment, expressionless. Then: "Let it be so."

Without warning, the god stepped forward and, wrapping one arm around the elf's waist, jerked the elf against him. Alarmed, the elf tried to push himself out of the embrace but the god was far stronger than he. "Calm yourself," the Vala commanded severely, and he reached up with his other hand, placing his index and middle fingers against the elf's forehead. He closed his eyes and said a single word from a very old language that even the elf didn't know.

With a startled cry, the elf arched his back, his hands gripping the god's cloak so tightly that it was hard to believe that the fabric didn't tear. A wave of pure power and warmth passed through his entire being, leaving him tingling and drained. His legs would no longer support him, and he would have fallen in the mud had it not been for the god's hold on him. Trembling and breathing hard, he tried very hard to keep his mind focused on the words the god was speaking.

"There, child," he soothed gently. "You no longer have to fear what lies within yourself. You cannot unknowingly harm someone with it, and no one else may use it to harm you or others. You and your power belong to me. Only I can break this seal." He brushed the elf's soaked hair out of his eyes and helped him stand. The god made sure he wouldn't fall over when he released him before taking a step back.

The elf raised a hand to his head, amazed at the difference. It was as if someone had removed a sound that constantly rang within his ears and wore on him, a sound that he hadn't even noticed. He felt lighter, freer—and it didn't feel as if there was something lurking in his mind, waiting to be released. He looked up at the god in amazement, eyes clearly shining with thanks and wonder.

The god studied him, head tilted to the side slightly. "You are very dear to us," he murmured. "I fear, though, that there is still more pain ahead in your life. I wish only that we could protect you. I wish that we could protect you all." A weary sadness, deep and incredibly old, filled his eyes. "If only there had been no pain in the earth. Perhaps I would not have had to come here like this." He stopped, closed his eyes against the thought, and composed himself. Again, the barest lifting of the lips as he looked at the elf. "We will doubtless meet again. When, though, is always a question. For now, you need to awake. Your guardian is very distressed."

Surprised, the elf stiffened, and the Vala disappeared, leaving him alone in a world that was quickly fading back to reality.


	2. Chapter One

Author**: Cassiandra**

Warnings: none for this chapter, unbeta-ed

Note: **Whole chapters (such as this one) have been rewritten or are very different from the old ones**. If you plan on reading this, you may want to start from the beginning. Also, I was never one hundred percent certain that Thuringwethil was actually destroyed, or if she's imprisoned somewhere, or what. If anyone knows _for certain_, please be so kind as to tell me. Some AU-ish things going on here because I don't think Tolkien's vampires were the vampires I'm wanting to use.

~*~

**Chapter One**

~*~

It had taken four months of healing and rebuilding after the Fall of Barad-dûr before Arwen and Aragorn could be married. Inhabitants of Minis Tirith, Rohan, Lórien, Mirkwood—now returning to the beloved forest of Greenwood that it had been in years past—Imladris, and lands all across Middle-earth had arrived to witness the most joyous event there had been in centuries.

Elrond believed it to be one of the most beautiful occasions he had had the fortune to attend. He had not seen his sons and daughter smile so for far too long. His people were peaceful at last, free of the shadow of Mordor. The race of men was starting a new chapter, while the elves seemed to be closing their whole book altogether.

Despite the festivities and celebration, Elrond could not seem to ignore the hollow spot in his chest. It would give an unpleasant twinge whenever he began to amuse himself with thoughts of grandchildren, reminding him with all the force and subtlety of a hammer to the gut that he would most likely not ever see those grandchildren. Or any grandchildren, for that matter. He knew, even if they did not, where his sons' hearts rested.

Once the first few weeks of feasting and celebration had passed, Aragorn had done something quite odd. He had dismissed all the guards and most all of the servants from his castle for a week in order to tend to their own families and celebrate among friends. Needless to say, Aragorn's people continued to find more and more reasons to fall in love with their new king.

As most of Aragorn's own guests had excused themselves by now, the dismissal of the servants left the enormous castle relatively empty. All that remained were the close friends and family of the married couple and those servants who had fervently wished to stay and help. The Hobbits and Gimli had left this morning, full of regret, but insisting that it was time for them to return home. A few of the most loyal retainers from the three elven realms had not budged in their desire to remain with their lords and lady and were staying in Minis Tirith as well.

That left only about fifty people within the castle, Elrond mused. He wondered when last these halls had been so barren, or when so many of the most powerful, important people of Middle-earth had all been assembled in a place so unguarded.

Had not the Dark Lord and his minions finally fallen, Elrond would not have permitted such a careless thing to occur. As it was, he still could not shake the unease he had been feeling of late. He could not place it, and so had been disregarding it as the remnants of thousands of years of hiding and being watchful. The feeling would not leave, and persisted until, out of sheer exasperation, he turned his full attention to it one evening.

He stood on one of the high balconies that overlooked the White Tower and the lands that surrounded it. It was a sight that always left him slightly breathless, though some of that could be attributed to the great height. Night had fallen hours ago, and everyone else had likely made their way to bed by now. He closed his eyes, focusing entirely on the foreboding in him.

His brow furrowed slightly as he turned his head first right then left. _Where are you? _he thought to himself. What_ are you?_

He could feel the unease growing, the pressure of it starting to weigh greatly on his chest and shoulders, making it unpleasant to breathe. He had been wrong, then, unfortunately. This was not mere imagination or paranoia. There was something out there, something evil that lurked just beyond his sight.

He forced himself farther, deeper, searching. The weight on him increased dramatically, alarmingly so, but he pushed forward. It was so close, but every time he felt he had reached it, it would suddenly change direction or retreat further away.

He knew he must fetch Galadriel, then. She would surely be able to locate the source. He opened his eyes, already turning toward the balcony door. He froze, eyes widening slightly. There was no door. There wasn't even a wall where the door should be. He looked down, and his heart jumped into his throat. The floor was gone. He turned sharply to his original position overlooking Gondor. Nothing. No balcony, no castle, no lands, nothing. All around him was a blanket of the purest darkness he had ever seen. There were no stars or moon to pierce this veil.

He reached forward to where he knew the banister of the balcony should be. His hand did not come in contact with anything, and he slowly withdrew it. He held very still, not wanting to accidentally wander over the side.

He breathed deeply, forcing himself to focus. The weight of the lurking unease, the _evil_, had grown once more. He began searching again. After a few moments, he saw something flicker in the darkness, and latched onto fiercely. Without thought or caution he followed it to the source, plunging further and further into the darkness.

Somewhere along the way, Elrond realized what he was doing and began to slow. It would not do to be discovered. He knew where it was now, and had only to follow it deeper. This he could do quietly with no fear of losing it once more.

The low tone—a hum or murmuring?—suddenly stopped. He had not noticed its presence until it had disappeared. He stopped himself, unsure, tension rising. When the hum did not return, he began to slowly make his way toward the source again.

Something grabbed him. He gave a startled gasp at the feeling and instinctively pulled back. The grip tightened painfully. It felt as if someone had grabbed both of his arms, the fingers clamped around his forearms, though he saw nothing in the darkness. He was drawn forward, his strength nothing in comparison to this.

He was coming closer and closer to the source of evil, and his mind was rebelling against whatever it was that lay there. It tried to push itself into his thoughts, his memories, but he refused it entrance. He felt the spark of anger, and the "fingers" on his arms dug into his skin. He bit the inside of his mouth to keep from grunting with the pain.

Faster and faster it pulled him, constantly attacking the walls of his mind. Elrond could. . .feel what lay in the other's mind, and he drew back in horror and disgust. There was madness there, hatred, bloodlust. A playfulness that was dark and twisted.

He felt as if he had stumbled, though this whole time his physical body had not moved even an inch. He was brought to his knees, the terrible weight finally pushing him down. He drew in a ragged, labored breath. All motion had stopped. He raised his head, against his own wisdom and pleading.

There was nothing there but two points of brilliant emerald green. They grew brighter and brighter, their intensity causing him to raise a hand against the light. Then the great force of rage and immense _power _smashed into him, leaving him flat on his back.

The light had retreated somewhat, drawn into a pair of eyes that regarded him with anger and intrigue. Still, he felt pushed to the ground as if a building had fallen on top of him. He had a sudden, horrifying realization. This thing, this _evil_ that stood before him, was coming here, to Minis Tirith.

"S-stay. . ._away_," he gasped, his fury giving him enough strength to raise his head just off the ground and utter the words. He would not allow his daughter to come to harm, not after all that she had had to go through to achieve this happiness.

The green eyes peered down at him blandly, but the force increased sharply, forcing his head back hard against whatever floor this black realm had. His vision blurred alarmingly, his thoughts muddling.

"What an inconvenience," the thing above him sighed. "You will come to regret your curiosity."

He felt smothered, and he strained against the pressure that covered him, his body and mind going into an uncontrollable panic when he could not force air into his lungs. He grew weaker and weaker from the loss of oxygen, vision blurring. His last sight was of the green eyes, sparkling with amusement.

~*~

Arwen sat beside her father's bed as she had that entire morning and afternoon. The sun was just beginning to dip down, signaling night within the hour, and still her adar had not woken from whatever sleep he had fallen into.

A servant had found him, early that morning, passed out on the balcony. He skin had been icy to the touch, something that had alarmed them all. While Elrond was half-elven, he was not normally affected by the cold as humans were.

Galadriel had tried, around mid-afternoon, to reach his mind, but had withdrawn after a while with a worried frown.

"His mind is like a fortress," she had said as she gazed down at him. "It has always been like this, but not so impenetrable for me. Either he has grown stronger, or he forced these walls up against something else."

This had set off a whole new set of questions. All the rest of Arwen's family and friends had left the room to discuss the situation. Glorfindel had stayed behind, briefly, a slight frown marring his features, before joining the rest. Arwen stayed beside her father.

The unanswered questions were the worst. They plagued her mind as she watched over him. Why had this happened? What had caused it? Has Adar become ill again? It was incredibly rare, but she knew of at least two times that he had fallen ill. Some weakness of his human blood had allowed it, and the illness had both times ended up being severe. But he had recovered both times, so surely he would recover this time as well. If, after all, he was truly sick.

She bit her lower lip in worry. There could be an outside cause to all of this, but who could—and would—do a thing like this? Barad-dûr had fallen, Sauron was destroyed, and the Dark Lord's evil people had were almost completely wiped out.

The sun had been down for nearly two hours, and no one had returned to the room. Arwen had been drifting to sleep, back slightly sore from sitting in the chair beside the bed for so long. She had noticed many differences in her own body once she had made her choice to become human, but none so frustrating as how easily her energy seemed to deplete. She straightened herself into a more rigid posture so as to not fall asleep.

It was then she noticed her adar's stirring. Heart leaping in its relief, she leaned closer to the bed, whispering praise to Elbereth. "Ada?" she asked softly. "Ada, can you hear me?"

He face was strained, brow furrowed and head moving restlessly from side to side. He muttered something to soft for her to hear, and then grew very still. He gasped suddenly, fingers digging into the bedclothes at his sides and tearing at the fabric. He moaned softly, pained. Alarmed, Arwen stood up and ran to the door of her father's chambers.

"Aragorn! Mithrandir!" she cried into the hall, voice somewhat shrill. "Please hurry, there is something wrong with Adar!"

Without waiting, she returned to Elrond's side. He was gasping more now, almost choking, and his hands had come to his chest and were ripping at the robes there as if trying to remove something from on top of him.

Arwen heard more than saw the crowd that ran into the room, more people than should have ever been needed in these chambers. She searched desperately for Mithrandir. Only he seemed to be missing from the group.

"Elbereth," she heard Elladan breath.

Abruptly, Elrond jerked upright with a yell. His eyes were wide, bright with fear. A hand grasped the fabric of his robes near his throat in a death-grip. His chest was heaving rapidly as he took in one great, shaking breath after another. He looked at the people around him, disoriented.

In the next moment, his face had turned grim, and he had thrown the covers off of him and had swung his legs out of the bed. He stood, unsteady, and made his way for the door. He pushed past the concerned faces and questions of those gathered in his room, yelling at them to get out.

The hallway was deserted except for Thranduil and his son, Legolas, when he finally stumbled out into it. The others followed behind him momentarily. He paid no attention to any of them, instead running for the nearest balcony.

"Elrond, explain yourself," Celeborn demanded. "What has happened to you?"

Elrond reached the balcony, undid the latch on the door, and threw it open. He stepped out onto it and stared at the dark sky, growing very still.

"They're coming," he muttered softly to himself as he searched the sky.

"What?" asked Thranduil, bewildered. "Who? Elrond, _what is going on_?"

Elrond stiffened suddenly. Then he turned and stared at them all with wide eyes. "They're here," he said. "They came early because I found them out."

"Wh—" started Elladan, but his adar cut him off.

"They've come to take the castle, as well as those that are in it," Elrond said, voice rising in volume. "Arm yourselves!"

None of them moved, though many looks were passed among the group. Elrond stared at them, frustration and desperation growing. They didn't understand, they doubted him.

"Do as he says," Glorfindel suddenly commanded. "Questions can be asked later."

As he watched them all hurry away to their weapons, Elrond had never felt more thankful for his dearest friend. He truly was a gift from the Valar.

He turned back toward the sky, closing his eyes and searching. How far away were they? Hours at least. The force of that evil was coming, but it was not strong enough for it to be very close. He shifted slightly, his body feeling heavier than it ought. Most likely from the prolonged trance he had been in.

He turned away from the balcony's edge, prepared to fetch his own weapons. His movements were sluggish, though, and he felt like he was lifting lead with every step he took. What in the world. . . ? Surely he should not be so affected?

A shadow fell over him, then, and a chill coursed through his body causing him to shiver involuntarily. He felt a great weight dragging him down, down to the ground, and he fell on his hands and knees. He fell on his side and had just enough strength to roll on his back.

His eyes met the brilliant green ones that he had dreaded seeing again. Now, though, the rest of the creature was visible. Already, its monstrous, leather wings were disappearing, leaving behind a being that looked very much like an elf.

Elrond's eyes widened in disbelief. Surely this could not be what he thought it to be. Its kind should have been destroyed with Thuringwethil. Struck dumb, Elrond could only stare up at the creature in horror.

It crouched on the balcony's banister, watching him with the luminescent green eyes, its mouth pulled back in a victorious sneer. It did not seem to care a whit about how high up it was, or how precarious its position on the ledge was.

"So here you are," it chuckled softly. "The one that botched the timing of my plans." It stepped down lightly from the banister, coming to stand over Elrond. "Ah, well," it continued, heaving a dramatic sigh. "All has ended up how I wanted it to in the end, so I'm not to upset with you."

It crouched suddenly beside him, intense eyes seeming to see right through him. Elrond could not move or he would have backed as far away from the monster as he could have. It studied him for a moment in silence.

"You should be asleep," it observed. "Why are you still conscious? All the others have fallen by now."

Elrond felt the despair and alarm grow greater inside him. What had become of the others? "What. . .are. . .you?" he was able to force out.

The creature raised an eyebrow in surprise. Then it said, voice low and sinister, "I am that which you most fear—and if not now, than very shortly, shining one."

Elrond wanted to ask it more, demand reasons, plead with it to leave his children unharmed. He was losing the battle for consciousness, however, and his mind was dragging even though his heart was hammering. Once again, he passed away with those eyes staring down at him.


	3. Chapter Two

**Author**: Cassiandra

**Warnings**: violence/death, unbeta-ed

**Note**: **Whole chapters (such as this one) have been rewritten or are very different from the old ones**.

~*~

**Chapter Two**

~*~

Had it not been that Kaziad was his Head, his Master, the Clan Leader—if it had not been for that very reason, then Marcus would not have stepped foot into this great human city they called Minis Tirith. He would not have considered twice the idea of "playtime" with Arda's most powerful beings. He also would not have essentially trapped the pitiful remains of his people within the castle.

He, however, was not Kaziad. Therefore, when his Master had said "Go", he had done just that. Perhaps there was a method to Kaziad's madness, a plan that lay hidden beneath the more appealing ideas of torture and eating. Marcus did not think so. He did, however, believe that whatever things Kaziad might do that endangered the clan, his Master would always have away out. He had never let the clan come to harm because of his whims.

Not that there had been much of a chance for those whims to be tested in the past thousand or so years. After their great Mother was gone, they had become lost. Morgoth himself had found it hard to control them. They obeyed him in the end, loathing the wretches that had taken Thuringwethil from them and turning their hatred upon the elves and men. Morgoth had delighted in their fury.

After Morgoth was banished, though. . .none of the vampires would ever serve one such as Sauron, especially with how he had disregarded and even mocked Thuringwethil. They rebelled against him and his rule—but they had sorely underestimated his power. They had been trapped, locked for countless years deep beneath the earth.

They had wandered the earth in spirit, unable to touch anything or influence anything. They hungered, but they could not fed; they lusted, but they could not have; they hated, but they could not kill. They watched the elves grow and start fading, and they watch men become mighty in the land. Names and lands had meant nothing to them.

Then, four months ago they had been released. Thrown back into their bodies and rudely awoken to the unbearable _hunger_. They had torn free from the bindings that no longer had the power to hold them and killed the guardians set to watch them, feeding on the blood. It was not enough, though, and soon they had turned on each other in their madness. Even knowing that their hunger and fury could not be quenched by their kinsmen's blood, they attacked.

When the hunger had faded away enough to be manageable and their anger subsided, they had mourned the loss of so many. Their number, already so small, was reduced to seventy. Seventy left of a whole race. Even more were lost upon discovery of their new weaknesses. Sauron had apparently made sure that, should they get free, they would be greatly hindered in their quest to come after him.

The sun burned them as it had before, but it had turned fatal. Silver burned their skin and wounded them severely if they were struck with it. Wood, if used to impale them through the heart, could kill them. All of these things caused them to be even more furious. They were weak now in ways they had not been before. But in making them weak against specific materials and methods, Sauron had inadvertently made them stronger. They were invincible to all other things.

No one cared really what happened after they had awoken. Kaziad's rule went uncontested, as it had in the years after Thuringwethil had gone. No one cared to argue about the slaughter of elves and men. Their hatred still burned hot, and now they wanted something to remove their guilt and loss. Their prisoners did not need to die quickly, though.

Marcus surveyed the gathered captives, about forty in all. The servants and guards were easy enough to separate by their clothing. That left the powerful ones, the elves and human rulers. And that damn wizard.

Marcus felt his lip curl slightly as his gaze fell on the Istar. He hated wizards, and this one had not made him change his mind. He had made sure that this one and all of the elves had their mouths securely gagged. He wanted no more spells set off within the castle.

The last of the prisoners were being gagged and shackled as he watched. He could tell that some of the vampires desperately wished to bite into their captives, but they held themselves in check. Kaziad had forbidden any feeding at the moment. Not until things were ready, not until they were sure that nothing could harm them.

It chafed Marcus to see how cautious they had been forced to become. His kinsmen were performing admirably, though, in obeying their orders. Even the almost tangible pull of elven blood could not persuade them to disobey. The last thing they needed right was a group of inebriated vampires.

That was what elven blood did to them--or _had_ done to them in the past. Perhaps that was another wretched change that Sauron had caused. Charged with immortality and power, the blood of the Eldar burned them at first. However, if one could persist through those first few moments of pain, the blood became like the finest of wines. It went to their heads, clouding thought and wisdom. It dulled their strength and speed. But for a while, they were _warm,_ and their dead hearts beat.

For now, they would have to wait. Kaziad always rewarded loyalty and obedience.

"Leave one unbound," said a baritone voice resonating with authority. Marcus turned to see the arrival of his Master, giving him a questioning look as one of the other vampires left a servant girl free of her shackles. Kaziad only smiled, adjusting his hold on the elf he carried in his arms, and said, "An example for later."

Marcus did not question because Kaziad would not answer. Instead he turned his attention to the limp elf his Master carried. "Who is this one?" he asked.

"If you're asking his name, I've no idea," Kaziad said promptly. He grinned widely, though his next words belied its humor. "This is the foul wretch that caught onto me. He is the reason we were forced so early."

Marcus studied the creature with mild irritation. Planning and times did not really matter if all one was doing was slaughtering a houseful of elves and men. Then again, it had seemed important to Kaziad, and his Master had been quite wroth after his encounter with the intruder.

"He is not very remarkable," Marcus stated blandly. "Indeed, his appearance is that of a frail human's."

Kaziad frowned slightly, really studying the elf as if it was the first time that he had done so. "No," he finally agreed. "But he is. . .interesting. I will break him slowly for the trouble he's caused me."

With that, Kaziad unceremoniously dumped the limp elf into Marcus' arms. "Be sure to gag him," Kaziad reminded with a careless wave of his hand. "His voice annoys me with the questions and the _demanding_."

Marcus obeyed.

~*~

Elrond had been right.

That was Glorfindel's first thought when he was aware enough to have any. He was sure to keep his breathing even and stay boneless, all the while letting his sharp ears determine what was happening around him.

His hands and feet were bound, and moving just the slightest showed him that it was shackles and chains that had been clamped around his wrists and feet. He had been gagged as well. All around him was the unconcerned yelling from what had to be their captors. They spoke in a tongue that made no sense to him, one that was not pleasant to the ears. After a moment of hearing no one near him, Glorfindel opened his eyes just a crack.

At first, he thought them to be elves, for they all seemed to possess the ethereal beauty of the Eldar, and they had a grace rarely found in humans. Their movements were almost too fluid, to quick at times for him to watch. The feeling of death clung to them, almost tangible at times, and they peered down at their captives with an almost animalistic hunger.

They were not elves. They were none of the races created by Ilúvatar. What race was there, though that could cast themselves in such a pleasing light and yet harbor such a foul evil? Glorfindel tore his eyes away from them at last and studied his surroundings.

They were gathered in the enormous feast hall, but the tables and chairs had all been shoved against the walls. All the prisoners were on the floor, gathered in a group in the middle of the hall. The windows to the outside gave one the impression that it was still evening outside. As Glorfindel studied it, though, he came to realize that there was no light that pierced that total darkness outside the windows. There were no stars, no moon, no light whatsoever.

A voice suddenly called out above the rest, calling the attention of the captors and gathering them at the front of the room.

"All right!" the voice called again, this time in heavily accented Westron. "Wake up!"

Surprisingly, the prisoners around Glorfindel began to move. Uneasy, Glorfindel gave up his charade and sat upright. Looking around the hall, he was relieved to see that everyone, even the servants seemed to be there. All around him, the prisoners were waking and coming to attention.

"If I may have your attention!" the voice called again. Silence fell over the feast hall as the prisoners turned toward the source of the voice.

~*~

"Thank you all for coming here tonight," Kaziad said loudly, his voice carrying and filling the entire feast hall effortlessly. He smirked, amusing himself. "Not that you really had a choice in the matter, but I appreciate it nonetheless."

Marcus surveyed the small group that huddled together in their chains, studying quickly each face. Fear, anger, puzzlement—the emotions all ran about the same. There were a few, such as Kaziad's stray, who hid their thoughts behind impeccable masks. Marcus was sure that they would soon lose that hard-won control.

"I would like to make a little introduction," Kaziad went on. He looked at Marcus, motioning toward the unshackled girl. Marcus took hold of the girl, who began struggling violently. He forced her roughly—effortlessly—to where his Master waited. When Kaziad took her in his hands, he began hushing her gently and talking softly to her.

She stilled, eyes wide and staring at him with an expression of enchantment. She did not resist when he pulled her against him, one arm around her waist and his other hand on her chin, gently tilting it up and to the side. She shivered slightly as Kaziad kissed her neck softly. He watched the other prisoners from beneath his lashes, inhaling deeply. He smiled, a slow wicked thing.

Then he tore the girl's throat out.

Marcus watched the scene without surprise, though he was dismayed. Now the prisoners were screaming, sobbing, and shouting curses. Kaziad showed wicked glee as he drank the girl's blood. It was more a lesson in how _not _to feed—messy and wasteful. To kill the source of your meal was foolish, not to mention gluttonous. One did not need to drain a victim in order to be sated. But that sort of lesson was not the one that he wished to teach.

Finished, he released the girl and let her fall boneless to the ground. "Silence!" he commanded, his voice almost a tangible weight. The prisoners fell abruptly silent. He stared at them, blood covering his mouth, neck, tunic front, and right hand. He licked his fingers clean of the blood as he continued to stare at them, a slight grin on his face. Finished, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. The silence was broken only by muffled sobs.

"My name is Kaziad," he began. "I can bring tortures unimaginable. I can inflict a pain so fierce that it would have you screaming for death. I can track down and kill your loved ones in front of you, just as I have done with this girl." He paused, letting his words have their full effect. "Do not resist me. Do not try to escape. If you follow my orders explicitly, then you may live a lot longer than if you hadn't. You certainly won't die in excruciating pain."

Kaziad looked at Liase, and she stepped quickly to his side. She held a small piece of rolled parchment that Kaziad quickly looked over. She handed him a pen when he was finished.

"This is from tonight, before we entered?" he asked her quietly. She nodded once, confidant. As well she should be. Marcus had never seen her equal when it came to stealth and reconnaissance.

"You will respond when your name is called by raising your hands," Kaziad said to the prisoners. "Marien."

Kaziad looked up expectantly. When no hands were raised, his expression dropped into an impatient scowl. "Marien," he repeated, voice tight.

"That's her," came a trembling voice. Kaziad whipped his attention to the speaker, a male servant who immediately cringed and shrunk into himself at Kaziad's notice of him. "R-right there. At your feet."

Kaziad looked down at the girl, eyebrows high. "Ah." he said after a moment, making a sharp strike on the paper with the quill. "Very well, then."

~*~

He had been right.

Elrond stared straight ahead in dumb shock, chilled and numb. That monster, the thing with the green eyes, had torn the girl's throat out with its teeth. Holding her in an intimate embrace, then murdering her in the next instant. Beautiful, foul beasts that drank blood and had the ability to change form into a monstrous bat with iron claws.

_Vampire_.

He had been right, but oh, how desperately he wished he had been wrong.

"Elrond."

He jumped slightly as his name was called. He looked up at the monster, the vampire. He wished it dead, cast into the Void where its Master lay. Wished he could kill the thing that had taken the hard-won peace from his daughter with his own hands.

"Elrond," Kaziad repeated, emphasizing the name with irritation.

Elrond raised his shackled hands slowly, placing a mask over features that had most likely slipped into a loathing snarl.

Kaziad stared at him, seeming delighted. "Ah, the Silmaril," he said with a smirk.

Elrond felt the mask slip a little bit in his surprise, and the demon's smile grew wider. He leaned toward another vampire and whispered something in its ear. The other nodded, understanding now what his Master had meant.

Kaziad did not bother to explain and went on marking the names off of the list. When he finished and all seemed accounted for, he gave a few sharp commands to the other vampires in their strange, unpleasant tongue.

"You will do _everything_ you are asked," Kaziad said to the prisoners. "Any who disobeys will be brought to me."

He left without any other words to them, but did give further instructions to the blonde vampire that had stood at his side throughout the whole ordeal. Then he left, followed by two others that were clothed differently than the rest.

The remaining vampires went through the prisoners, ordering them and "encouraging" them to their feet. Once all of them were assembled, the marched them, single file, through the giant feast hall doors. They walked down hallway after hallway, seemingly with no destination for those who were not accustomed to the winding passages of Minis Tirith's castle.

Elrond knew the passages very well. Grimly, silently, he followed his captors to the dungeons.


	4. Chapter Three

**Author****: Cassiandra**

**Warnings**: violence, death, unbeta-ed

**Note**: Nothing really, just R&R if you enjoy it or have any constructive criticism.

~*~

**Chapter Three**

~*~

By the number and spacing of meals, Elrond felt that it had been at least three days since the capture of Minis Tirith. Their food had been simple but nourishing—mainly old bread, cheese, and stale water. Seeing as they ate only blood, he knew it was probably better than anything the vampires might attempt to cook in the kitchens.

The prisoners had been separated into groups of two and were now shackled and chained inside their cells. The rooms were small, and most had only a thin layer of old straw to bed down on. Elrond and Glorfindel counted themselves among the fortunate for having a single wooden cot. There were few that had been able to sleep, but by now the humans were exhausted. Their nerves, always so much more easily ruffled than those of elves, had been high and frayed for three days straight.

Glorfindel, his cellmate, was pacing again. The movement grated on Elrond, but it was useless to tell him to stop because he would only be at it again in ten minutes or so.

Elrond inhaled deeply, let the air back out in a long sigh, and leaned back against the cool stone wall. He peered at the cell across the hall, its two human occupants unmoving. One had been missing the first night, and the other had been taken last night and returned only an hour ago. Both looked drawn and pale, and both kept the collars of their tunics high on their necks. Their eyes darted with every slight movement they saw, and they tried to shrink into themselves as much as possible.

Elrond was not completely certain, but it appeared that the vampires were able to eat without killing. At least not the first time. If someone were to go through multiple feedings, though, they would most likely die.

He frowned as he turned his wrists, feeling the weight of the thick iron bands around his wrists and the short chain that linked them together. He tried not to think when it would be his turn to bare his throat, or when it time for one of his children to do so.

"Damn it to Mandos," growled Glorfindel suddenly, slamming his shackles against the bars of the door. "What the hell do they _want_?"

"Calm yourself," Elrond murmured, still watching the other cell. The two human servants were now staring at Glorfindel. "Stop working yourself up into a fit."

Glorfindel huffed, frustration evident in his scowling face, and he turned to Elrond. "Shall we wait quietly, then, until they make a snack out of us?" he snapped.

Elrond raised his eyebrows at his friend, and Glorfindel had the grace to look away, mouth twisted petulantly. "As unappealing as it is," Elrond said, "I think becoming a snack is the least of our worries."

Glorfindel looked across the narrow hallway to the other cell. He was quiet a moment before sitting himself in front of the door. His clothing was rumpled and dirty from the old straw and filth of the cell. Hair that normally shone as gold was lank and dull in the dim light given off by the few torches in the halls.

Why the vampires had been generous enough to give even that little light, Elrond did not know. He suspected it had more to do with keeping some semblance of emotional stability among the prisoners rather than actual compassion. It was his observation that light tended to have a strange calming effect.

He forced down the new wave of disgust as another large rat scurried from some crevice in the wall and across the back of his hand. He jerked his hands up and rested them in his lap.

"The filth of Denethor's dungeons rival even those of Mirkwood's," Elrond muttered, wiping his hand on the front of his robes—which probably weren't much cleaner.

"I heard that, Peredhel." Thranduil's voice came faintly from the room to the right of theirs.

"You would, wouldn't you? Thranduil of Greenwood always did have a talent for picking up things he wasn't meant to," Elrond said with a sigh, and Glorfindel snorted.

"One cannot help but pick things up when the speaker is Elrond of Imladris," Thranduil said snidely. "Especially because he manages to say so very _much_."

"What I find truly incredible," drifted Celeborn's dry voice from somewhere on the opposite side of the hall, "is how the two of you manage to bicker no matter the time, place, or appropriateness of the situation. I don't suppose I have to remind either of you of your rather esteemed ages and titles?"

"We weren't bickering," Thranduil and Elrond protested in unison.

Glorfindel gave one sharp bark of a laugh and looked back at Elrond with incredulous amusement.

"No one understands good-natured banter, it seems," muttered Thranduil.

"It appears not," agreed Elrond, refusing to reward Glorfindel by looking at him.

The brief levity passed, leaving Elrond feeling even worse than he had before. The weight of the situation, the pressure of fear, anger, and despair—all of it dragged at him. Why had this happened? Why, after thousands of years of battling and to have finally defeated Sauron and his forces—why was this happening now?

Was there to be no rest for him or his children in this world? He was so tired of fighting, strategizing, preparing, mending, sacrificing. He wanted peace for his children, one that would not be broken by Dark Lords or evil creatures.

Glorfindel stiffened in front of him, staring intently down the hallway. His breath hissed out low and angry, and he stood quickly to his feet. "They've come back," he informed Elrond.

Elrond remained seated, but every sense was trained toward the approaching vampires. The made their way noisily down the hall, ordering the prisoners to get back from the doors before carelessly throwing that meal's food into the cell and slopping water into a bowl. They were more generous than some captors Elrond had had. Three meals a day was unusual.

Elrond watched the two humans across from him shrink back in alarm as the vampires finally came into view. They trembled and wept before the laughing creatures, pressing themselves as close as they could get to the stone wall at the back of the cell while their food was tossed in.

Stiffly, and without breaking the gaze of the two vampires, Glorfindel retreated to where Elrond sat. One of the vampire leered at Glorfindel and made a vulgar gesture that was somewhat lost on Elrond. Unsurprisingly, Glorfindel understood perfectly well, and he bristled and spat at the vampire's feet.

The other vampire chuckled as his friend's leer fell abruptly from his face. "I'll be helping myself to an easier meal than the one you desire," he said, and continued on down the hall, leaving the large now-empty pails that had held the meals of probably twenty prisoners outside their cell. Another set of vampires walked past the one standing in the cell doorway, barely sparing them a glance as the went on to deliver their own food to the prisoners.

"Just you wait, goldie," the first growled, a finger leveled at Glorfindel. "I've got you handpicked. The ones with the greatest pride and bark always end up screaming the loudest."

"You would die before laying a finger on me," Glorfindel said. Elrond looked up at his friend quickly, startled as the intensity in his voice. He was trembling with barely suppressed fury, his hands clenched into tight fists.

The vampire began to take a step into the room, pausing momentarily as a woman screamed from out in the hallway. Deducing that his friend had chosen his meal, he turned his attention back to Glorfindel. Neither the elf nor the vampire took note of Elrond's sudden rise to his feet.

"You may be fast, elf," the vampire growled, "but I could crush you in an instant."

Glorfindel widened his stance, hands out at his sides, readying himself. The chain from his shackles hung in front of him, a hindrance. The vampire stopped, however, glancing back out into the hallway as the woman screamed again. Glorfindel mistook its hesitation for uncertainty and lunged at the demon.

Quicker than even an elf, the vampire had caught him by the shoulders and shoved him against the stone wall. Glorfindel kicked his legs wildly as he was lifted into the air. He made contact multiple times, but the vampire merely flinched and grunted. Dully, Glorfindel heard something smash within the cell, but his attention was focused completely on the vampire. It bared wicked white teeth at him, eyes growing dark.

Then it jerked, and its eyes grew very wide. It swayed a bit, and Glorfindel was dropped suddenly, landing in an ungraceful heap on the old straw and stone. He was on his feet in an instant, watching the vampire. It did not try to attack him. Instead, it was reaching in vain to remove a large, jagged piece of wood that had pierced its back and gone straight through its body, piercing its heart. It staggered sideways, falling to its knees, then on its stomach.

It stilled, and Elrond ripped the wood from its body. Glorfindel looked at his lord, frowning slightly.

"That one was mine, Elr--" he stopped, barely able to catch the expression on Elrond's face as he pushed past him and out into the hall. The Peredhel was absolutely desperate. Glorfindel was at a loss for a moment before he remembered the screaming woman. He raced down the hall after Elrond, cursing himself for a fool for not having identified Arwen's cries sooner.

Ahead of him, Elrond came closer and closer to a struggling pair. One was the vampire that had been with its now-dead companion moments ago, the other was his daughter. Elrond did not check his speed as he drew near and collided with the vampire. In its surprise, it released Arwen, grabbing wildly for its assailant as they fell and rolled.

Elrond was fast, up again on his feet in seconds despite the hindrance of his long robes and the chain and shackles. Unfortunately, the vampire possessed unnatural speed. Elrond barely dodged a swipe aimed at his head. As it was, the blow clipped his shoulder. Something that should have—at best—unsteadied him sent Elrond smashing against the bars of another cell.

He dropped to a crouch as he hit, the vampire's fist smashing into the bars and bending them. He leaped forward, ramming the vampire's legs with his shoulder with as much force as he could muster. He hissed at the pain that erupted in his shoulder and arm, and the vampire stumbled backwards. That had had all the effectiveness of ramming a wall with one's shoulder.

Glorfindel was upon the vampire then, before it could regain its wits. He drew back a fist as far as the chain would allow and punched the creature square in the face. Of a venerable lineage and a mighty warrior himself, Glorfindel's blow was fierce and caused the vampire to fall. He was not without injury himself, though, and let loose a string of strong curses as Elrond scrambled to his feet once more. Without pause, Elrond plunged the jagged piece of wood into the vampire's heart. It howled loudly, convulsing as it tried to removed the wood, but Elrond leaned heavily upon it, forcing it deeper with a snarl.

"Dammit, Elrond, that's two," Glorfindel said, slightly breathless. Elrond turned to look at him, eyes still intense and face blank. He watched his friend wring his hand slightly while wincing. Glorfindel had probably managed to fracture something.

Glorfindel's eyes widening was his only warning, but even with that Elrond could not turn in time. Another vampire had sprung on him. Elrond fell and felt his head smack against the stones, his vision erupting into a sheet of white-hot pain. The vampire had landed heavily on top of him, and its wicked fingers and nails—as sharp as claws—were ripping at his robes and face. It was howling, enraged, and he felt hot breath against his face and neck.

Then the weight was gone, and the thing was howling in pain. Vision blurring in and out of focus, Elrond struggled to sit upright. He saw the vampire thrashing wildly as Glorfindel clung to its back. The chain connecting the shackles was wrapped around the demon's neck, and the tendons and muscles in Glorfindel's arms and neck stood out as he strained to keep his hold. One of the vampires hands finally caught Glorfindel by the back of the tunic, and it clutched at the fabric with a vicious growl. With terrifying strength it managed to drag Glorfindel over its back and head and throw the elf into a wall.

There was screaming all around them, something Elrond noticed only now as he struggled once more to his feet. He searched for his makeshift weapon, finding it a few feet away. He retrieved it as quickly as his condition would allow, alarm nagging at the back of his mind at how unsteady he was. Something wet and warm trickled down his face, and the whole front of his torso was throbbing in pain.

The vampire, frenzied now, had turned on the disoriented Glorfindel, gripping his golden hair in one hand and forcing his head back. It opened a mouth full of wickedly sharp teeth, the most prominent being two long fangs, and would have bit into the unprotected neck had not Elrond rammed the wood into its back.

It splintered in his hands, cutting the palms deeply as he shoved as hard as he could against the demon, making sure its heart was pierced. It had worked with the two before it and the method did not fail him this time around.

Moments later, Glorfindel was on his feet again and worrying over Elrond. The Peredhel swatted his hands away, ordering him quickly back to their cell to retrieve more wood. Glorfindel obeyed immediately, running back down the hall, and Elrond turned his attention finally to his daughter. His heart and body still thrummed from the battle ended only moments before, and he tried to calm himself now. Arwen was trembling slightly, but she was steady as she approached him.

"Thank you, Ada," she whispered, touching his cheek softly. Her hand came away stained red. "You are wounded, though."

Elrond looked down at his chest. The tattered front of his robes and tunic clung to his skin, the color much darker than it had been. He hissed slightly as he prodded gently with his fingertips.

"An astonishingly light consequence for your actions," a voice drawled. Arwen gasped, and Elrond whirled about, placing himself squarely in front of his daughter.

He cursed himself a thousand times as the greatest ass in Arda, seeing now the other half of the second pair of vampires that had passed their cell. At his side was the tall blonde vampire that had been talking with Kaziad. How had he been so daft as to ignore the absence of the third vampire's companion?

"That shall be remedied," the blonde finished. Elrond did not blink and still he somehow missed the movement as the vampire came to stand scarcely inches in front of him. He did not see, either, the movement of the vampire's hand as the back of it struck the side of his face, whipping his head to the side. It was done with such force that it felt like he had hit his head once more on the stone floor.

He heard Arwen cry out, and he felt his legs give beneath him. He lost consciousness before he hit the floor.


	5. Chapter Four

**Warnings**: Violence

**Note: **Okay, it's obviously been far more than a week. I apologize for that, but I had graduation and an incredibly involved, stressful, week-long trip right after that to plan for. I beg forgiveness and offer the next chapter. Please R&R if you have constructive criticism or if you just enjoyed it.

~*~

**Chapter Four**

~*~

The glass paperweight was of superior design, and there was probably no twin to be found throughout all of Middle-earth. It shattered most satisfyingly against the stone wall, the sound a fitting punctuation to Kaziad's enraged roar.

Marcus did not move, didn't even flinch, as he watched his Master tear the room apart in a blind rage. In the end, most of the furniture was destroyed and papers and books lay shredded about. The sturdy desk was split down the middle and had collapsed.

A living being would be panting with exertion. Kaziad merely stood in the middle of the ruined study and let out a single-noted, long, ominous noise as he clenched the hair nearest his skull tightly in his fists.

Marcus deemed it safe enough now to lay the unconscious elf down on the sofa—which had miraculously escaped unscathed. Marcus believed that to be mostly due to it being pushed back against a far wall and out of Kaziad's immediate reach.

Kaziad turned blazing eyes on the elf, but he lowered his clenched fists to his sides and attempted to relax. Slowly the obvious loathing and bloodlust abated. When he spoke though, his voice was a low growl.

"I. . ._still_ cannot believe it. That—that _wretch_ killed our kin. That he _somehow_ took them by surprise BY. HIM. _SELF. _And he killed them! I was not aware that this one was capable of that. Surely Galadriel or the damn wizard or—or. . . ." Kaziad hissed out a frustrated breath between clenched teeth.

"Master," Marcus began, "each prisoner's background was in the process of being studied, as you commanded." He paused a moment before Kaziad waved him on impatiently. "Those you considered worthwhile are being more thoroughly researched. At this point in time, we did not know that this one _was_ capable of such a feat. We were grievously unprepared for such an incident and have paid for it. All of the elves will be handled and watched with the utmost caution. We will not make the same mistake again."

"No," muttered Kaziad, stalking toward the sofa, expression dark. "No, we won't." He stared down at the elf, unconscious and blissfully unaware, and the bent over it. His hands wrapped around the thing's neck, tightening as he uttered a low growl. Snap his neck or just strangle him? Decisions, decisions. . . .

The elf's brow furrowed as his airflow became restricted. He moved weakly, trying to pull away from Kaziad.

"Master, may I be so bold as to remind you that you need them? You expressly told us to spare—"

"Shut up, and get out!" snapped Kaziad as he tightened his grip.

Without pause, Marcus bowed, uttering, "As you wish," and left.

The door shut with a sound of finality.

~*~

He couldn't breath.

At first Elrond had the sense that it was merely a dream, a horrible nightmare that he had visited once too many times in his life. It dragged him upwards, though. Steadily upwards through the fog and darkness until his eyes snapped open.

Everything was blurry, and he became aware of a grip as strong as iron around his neck. His body was thrashing of its own accord, and horrible sounds were coming from his own mouth.

He clawed desperately at the hands around his neck, staring up at his attacker. His vision had grown worse rather than improved, but there was no misplacing those green eyes.

His thrashing slowed, and his hands could now only weakly clutch at the hold around his neck. He felt the blackness dragging him downward once again.

And just like that, the hands were gone. His airway was opened up again abruptly, and he took a great, gasping lungful of air. He coughed violently, making his already-raw throat hurt terribly. He curled in on himself weakly, coughing and drawing in huge amounts of air. His face felt wet, and he wiped away tears that he did not remember shedding.

"A lovely sight," sneered a voice, and Elrond knew even without looking who it was. "A warrior undone by something so little. Weeping and weakened like a frightened child."

Elrond disagreed that being nearly strangled to death was something little, but he was to weak at the moment to rise to the bait. He couldn't, however, continue to lie there. He struggled to sit upright, eventually managing it, and stared silently at the demon that had called himself Kaziad.

"That is better," Kaziad said, though his face was completely blank. "Perseverance and a will fit for one that killed three vampires."

Elrond inclined his chin slightly, ignoring the fire in his throat. He did not trust himself to speak.

Kaziad growled softly at him, expression becoming dark. The vampire was furious. He took a step closer, and Elrond had to fight firmly with his own body to keep it from moving as far away as it could from the demon. For all his eyes told him that the thing before him was an elf or man, his body still tensed for flight. Something was buzzing just under the surface of his rational senses, pushing him to _move_. He had felt this few times before, the most memorable time being when he had accidentally woken a hibernating bear in its den.

The vampire stopped suddenly, eyes narrowing to mere slits as he studied Elrond intensely. His nostrils flared slightly, and Elrond could see his jaw tighten about the same time a slight tremor went through the vampire's body.

He already knew that the vampires were fast. It was not impossible to fight one—as he had already demonstrated—and it was not impossible to see their movements. The three he had killed were slow compared to this one.

He jerked backwards as he saw Kaziad move, but in the next moment he was pressed hard against the back of the sofa. Snakelike, the vampire's fingers threaded through his hair, gripping the strands closest to the back of his skull and jerking down. Elrond felt a surge of panic go through him. His neck was exposed.

His hands were free, and he pushed against Kaziad in an attempt to remove the vampire. It was as futile an action as pushing against a mountain and expecting it to move. Kaziad merely chuckled. Elrond tried to shrink away from the warm breath on his skin, but the vampire tightened his hold painfully.

"I hear your heart," the demon said. The accent was heavy, making the Sindarin words sound strange. "It hammers like that of a hare caught in a trap."

Elrond shoved against him more violently than before, but all this elicited was more laughter.

"You fight and kill my people, get yourself all bloody, then act arrogant with _me_. Surely my irritation is not a surprising reaction, nor is my desire to kill you." Kaziad paused a moment, then Elrond felt him recede slightly. Using the hold he still had in Elrond's hair, he forced the peredhel to look at him. He studied him for a long moment before saying, "Though. . .you do not seem the type to rashly jump as soon as the first opportunity presents itself."

Elrond did not reply, and a frown formed on Kaziad's face. "Tell me, why _did_ you attack and kill three of my men? If there was reason for you to act stupidly and risk your life, what was it?"

Elronf just stared at him, caught between the desire to protect his daughter from further harm and taking the risk in hopes that the vampire might spare him. Choosing his daughter had never been a hard—or slow—decision. He remained silent.

Kaziad growled softly, green eyes burning with rekindled anger. His other hand came up to Elrond's neck, fingers tightening around it in warning.

"Do not _play_ with me, wretch!" he snarled. "I will find out. From you or from the prisoners. People will die until I get the answer."

"My daughter," Elrond choked out, and the grip loosened.

"What?"

"One of your _people_ threatened my daughter. I had a chance to help her, and I took it." Explanation given, Elrond fell silent again. His throat burned, and his words had sounded rough.

"One of the vampires threatened your. . .daughter?" Kaziad repeated slowly.

Kaziad stared at him for a long time. Then, all at once, Elrond was released. The vampire was still standing over him, but he was turned slightly to the side and appeared to be deep in thought.

Elrond felt his body nearly collapse against the sofa in relief, and he cursed himself for his lack of control.

Kaziad looked back at him finally, brow furrowed and chewing slightly on his lip as he stared at the peredhel. He ran a hand through his strange, fiery-colored hair and let out an exasperated noise.

"_Damn _it," he muttered finally. He grabbed Elrond by the arm and hauled to him his feet. He gave him a severe look and said, "If you try to kill me or do anything else that is equally stupid, I will rip your daughter's throat out _in front of you_. Do you understand?"

Elrond have him a stiff nod. Kaziad pushed him none-too-gently in from of him, ordering him to lead the way back down to the dungeons

Elrond didn't believe for a moment that he had escaped punishment so easily. There was no reason for Kaziad to spare him. He felt his nerves grow worse as they descended the steep and numerous stairs. They traveled the numerous, twisting corridors that the almost labyrinthine dungeon held, finally came to the crossways that would take them to the halls were the prisoners were being kept. Kaziad ordered him to turn right instead of left, though. This hall continued straight on and held no turns.

Elrond felt his breath catch slightly as he finally stepped into the enormous room at the end of the hall. Before him stretched the most impressive and terrifying collection of torture instruments and machines. Walls were lined with chains and shackles and many other not-so-easily-identifiable objects. Elrond could guess what maybe half of the instruments were for. Everything else was a mystery.

"It would appear that one of Minis Tirith's former kings was quite a collector," Kaziad said. Elrond tensed, realizing that the vampire had been standing beside him and watching him as he had gazed around in the room in sickened astonishment.

Elrond ruthlessly pushed down the panic that threatened to wash over him. He had been tortured before.

_Not like this, though. Elbereth, never like this._

Kaziad took his arm in an uncompromising grip and dragged him to one of the walls. Shackles hung from a chain that ran through a thick iron ring in the wall. The vampire left him standing in front of the wall, and Elrond quickly turned to look at him.

The total confidence that the vampire had that he would not try to escape was infuriating but deserved. He would never do anything to endanger Arwen.

Kaziad slowly walked through the numerous tables and shelves, admiring each piece that struck his fancy. He hummed tunelessly as he did so, every once in a while glancing at Elrond with a small half-smile.

He stopped finally at one table not very far Elrond, picking up an object that was very familiar and easily identifiable.

"Lucky for you, I've never been overly interested in exploring the many and not-so-glorious techniques and instruments of torture," Kaziad said, coming closer. He hefted the cat o' nine tails thoughtfully. "I prefer the traditional punishments."

_Elbereth, spare me,_ Elrond prayed numbly as Kaziad—still humming softly—chained him face-first to the wall.

"Well, let's begin shall we?"


	6. Chapter Five

**Warnings**: torture, violence, crazy!Kaziad (though I don't suppose there is any other kind. . .), unbeta-ed, kind of short =/

**~*~**

**Chapter Five**

~*~

He had forced himself to keep silence, his stubborn pride allowing him no other option. As the whip came down, lash after lash, he began to lose focus. It was not long before Elrond could not keep the occasional sound from forcing itself past lips tightly clamped shut.

Then, for a moment—or, for all he knew, an hour—there was nothing. Blackness so thick and so like what he had walked through only a few short days ago smothered him. He came back to the wretched sound of an animal howling. The noise was guttural, wordless.

He was not, at first, aware that he was the source. Only when his back started to numb did he feel the fire in his throat as screams tore at it over and over again. It was then that he tried to regain control, but it was as if his body did as it pleased and he was but an observer.

Then the numbness completely washed over him. He felt the impact of the lash, but it no longer pained him. His cries died off, as did all other sound. The snap of the whip, the clanking of the chains and shackles as he fell against the wall once again, his legs finally giving out beneath him for good, Kaziad's steady stream of taunts and insanity. . .he heard it vaguely as if through closed doors.

He felt the wetness on his back and where it ran down either side, felt the rawness of his throat and knew it should hurt. He breathed in and out deeply, slowly, letting his forehead fall against the stone wall and rest there. His eyes wouldn't focus, wouldn't even stay open. At some point, the numbness had turned into a deep cold that chilled him even to the bones. Dimly he realized that he was trembling rather violently.

The shackles were released, and he crumpled to the floor. Then endless stone walls passed him as he was drifted—or was he being carried—through the dungeon of Minis Tirith.

An endless stream of muffled words, a flash of fiery red and brilliant green, and stones, stones, stones.

Vaguely he heard, "—wrong for a Silmaril to shine so dimly," which made absolutely no sense at all to him because his mother had carried the only one he had ever seen as she fell to the sea. Leaving him. What did he care what the jewel looked like, or any of them for that matter?

"They draw you in with their whispers of beauty, their light that shines even in the darkest places. Then they ruin you."

"Blessed," he mumbled, head rolling to the side, "and cursed." Then he had the strangest sense of ascending while at the same time spiraling downwards.

~*~

Glorfindel felt wretched for it, but he thanked all the Ainur and even Ilúvatar Himself when the screaming stopped abruptly. The silence wasn't much better, however.

Throughout the whole ordeal, he had heard weeping and prayers, people pleading with the Valar. Now that it was over, there was only quiet. A feeling of anxious anticipation.

Finally, Galadriel said, "He lives."

The unnatural silence broke, and Glorfindel felt a palpable air of relief from the other prisoners. Elrond was still with them.

A dark part of his mind wondered if that was fortunate at all.

~*~

Elrond was unbearably hot, and his skin felt as if something were clawing over every inch of it. He gasped slightly, stars exploding in front of his eyes as he tried to move. Fire and daggers stabbed all the way up his back, and his head throbbed terribly. He collapsed once more onto his stomach.

"I would advise you not to attempt that again."

He jerked slightly, breathing in sharply as the torture revisited his back. From this position, he could not see who had spoken, and he did not even consider moving in order to seek them out.

The blanket was pulled gently off of him and left gathered around his hips. The cool air of the room assaulted him immediately, but it was far better than the stuffy warmth.

"You are not well," the speaker, clearly female, said. Elrond felt too miserable to even think of a sarcastic reply. "You are fevered, and your back was laid open by the Master. I would implore you, for your own survival if nothing else, to lie still and not attempt an escape of any kind."

Elrond stared at the buttery-colored sheets incredulously. How in the world did they expect him to. . .no, it didn't matter. Wearily, he closed his eyes but did not permit himself to rest.

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He frowned and tried again, but there was no sound. H felt a dull panic briefly before he shoved it away, attempting to speak again. It took a few tries before he was able to utter anything.

The voice he heard was not his own, but a hoarse, soft, ghastly thing. It tore at his throat horribly, forcing him to swallow painfully.

Finally, he was able to force out, "How long have I been here?"

It was quiet for a few moments, but he knew the woman had not left. "Two days," she said. "You were fevered and kept moving in your sleep, causing your wounds to open again. Now that you are awake, though, I may fetch Kaziad."

Elrond tensed at the name and felt his back protest violently. "Am I not suitably punished for my transgressions?" he spat weakly.

There was a pause, then a small laugh. "You should have been killed, elf. It was only because of the stupidity of my brothers and their inability to follow orders that you now live."

Elrond frowned, confused. "Orders?"

"We were ordered not to feed off of or harm any of the elves until Kaziad allowed it. It appears my kinsmen were too eager and went after your daughter."

Elrond was quiet long enough that the woman obviously felt that was all he wanted and departed. In truth, Elrond was trying desperately to calm his heart down so it wouldn't betray him. The only reason then that he and his daughter lived was the mistaken assumption that he was a full-blooded elf. For Arwen would not have been able to choose her mortality were it not for his own mixed blood.

The pleasant cool that had come to him after the blanket had been removed had grown worse until he felt completely chilled. It was ridiculous really, to be so affected by temperature. He could not keep himself from shivering, even as the pain in his back made him imagine being whipped all over again.

After a time, he dimly heard the door open. He did not recall hearing footsteps, but he tensed as the hair on the back of his neck prickled. He turned his head as far as he could, trying to see. A red curtain fell in front of what little view of the room he had, and he felt other strands brush his shoulder.

A chuckle, then, "I nearly cut you in two. Or five." The curtain of hair receded as Kaziad stood up straight.

Elrond closed his eyes, for a moment the little child believing that by hiding under a blanket it would be safe from whatever monsters hid in its room.

"You should see your back, pet; it's a work of art. If I really look in some places, I can see bone. . . ."

Elrond stifled a howl as fingers pressed into a wound on his back. Kaziad chuckled again, mercifully removing his hand. Elrond lay panting, hands fisted in the sheets and making soft noises that he couldn't manage to keep silent.

"I don't want you to die," Kaziad said after a moment. "That would unfortunately not stress to my clan the importance of _listening _to me. So, I will heal you and return you to the dungeons by tomorrow."

"So if I die in the dungeons, it will not be the same as if you yourself had killed me?" It was hoarse and lacked any real firmness, but Elrond managed to say it without wavering.

Kaziad snorted. "Stop being so melodramatic. You're not going to die."

Elrond felt thoroughly confused. The demon claimed to have bared bone and muscle, something that would take _weeks _to heal, and yet he did not believe that putting him back into the dark belly of Minis Tirith would have ill effects on him?

"Wizards are not completely without use," Kaziad said. A large vial of faintly luminescent, grey liquid was placed on the bed in his line of sight. "This is a medicine, or I suppose you could say potion, from the East. It is a costly thing, made for the wealthy and vain. It is an oil that helps the body heal without leaving scars."

Elrond's fingers twitched slightly before he could move his hand enough to gently touch the vial with his forefinger. The glass was cold to the touch. Despite himself, he was interested.

"My own wizards tinkered with it a little bit, so the healing properties were greatly enhanced. This combined with your own quick elven healing will be more than enough to get you back on your feet by tomorrow night."

That curtain of red returned as Kaziad leaned in to speak in his ear, as if confiding a secret. "You will have scars, elf," he said, the small laugh ruining the deeply sorrowful tone. "Wounds this deep cannot just be erased. Be thankful, though, that you will not be bent and crippled, always in agony from the ghost pains."

The vial was removed from his sight, and there was sounds of movement above him. "However, with vanity, there comes a price," Kaziad continued, and Elrond jerked as some of the chilly oil dropped onto his back. "Though enormously helpful, when applied on wounds, the oil is infamous for being almost unbearably—"

Elrond felt as if every nerve in his back had suddenly erupted into flames, and he forced his face into the pillow beneath him, gripping the sheets so tightly in an attempt to keep quiet that his knuckles were white.

"—excruciating," Kaziad finished. He dug his fingers into the wounds on Elrond's back, letting the oil rub off. He shoved the peredhel down ruthlessly as he tried to move away from him. As if he could get far in that condition. He applied a generous amount of the oil to his hands and began thoroughly working it into each and every little cut he found.

He screamed into the pillow, pressing his face so hard against it to muffle the sound that he was briefly afraid he might suffocate himself. He was not one of the Ainur, though at the moment he was hard-pressed to believe that even they would be able to withstand such torture.

"Now, now," Kaziad said in a soothing tone, even as his fingers found the deepest wound, "I'm doing you a favor, my dear Lord Elrond." He doused the wound in oil, chuckling as Elrond writhed in agony. "This cost me a pretty penny, and I'm using it all on you."

_You wouldn't have to if you hadn't been the one to make such a mess of me in the first place!_

Kaziad laughed outright, and Elrond wondered if he had somehow managed to voice his thoughts. "So ungrateful," Kaziad sighed. Then, beginning to hum in his strange, tuneless fashion, he upended the entire vial and watched the oil spill out onto the bloody mess below.

Unfortunately, unconsciousness did not come quickly this time.

~*~

Please review if you have any constructive criticism or if you enjoyed the chapter. Thanks for reading!


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